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WhiteNoise101
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Name: Maia
Birthday: 12/21/1988
Gender: Female
Interests: Reading, writing, playing music, smoking pot, philosophy.
Expertise: Self-destruction.
Occupation: Student
Message: message meEmail: email me
Member Since:
1/19/2005
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| The past few days have been a hellish mess of hallucinations, chemicals, running through darkened streets, talking and sleeping and not sleeping and blood. I haven't eaten since Jul 17. I can't keep myself from falling again. I don't even try.
I want to have control and lose control at the same time. I want to be the person I always hoped I would become, but never really had the chance. I hate myself and I hate my life-- so why not die? Why not kill and starve those parts of me that make me so
Disgusting
Stupid
FAT
incapable
of living, incapable
of dying properly.
I'm not going to go to treatment ever again. It's useless. They never manage to help me, even though they try
Because I can't let them
Because I can't give up
Because I can't let go
Of those things I want and don't deserve.
I ran away from home three days ago, and came back just 30 minutes ago. I don't know why I keep coming back. It's useless. There's nothing for me here. I am ignored. There is nothing they can say to me anymore. I am the half-dead zombie they dance around. They don't want to acknolwedge me
Their greatest failure
So they hide behind words, silly words
And behind hollow, empty gestures.
The more I try, the more despicable I become. All my old demons come back to haunt me. I'm on heroin again. I can't keep anything in my stomach. I binge and purge and scream and yell and cut and when it gets too much, I run.
I can't stay here. I can't keep crying over this.
I can't reform myself. I can't fix this.
All I can really do
Is dive, head first
And hope that hitting rock bottom won't kill me.
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The house looks like it's been invaded by the Huns. Most of our larger furniture are already on their way to Tokyo. I'm packing and re-packing the few items I'm going to take with me. I'm not going to need much.
I keep believing that once i'll reach this new place, I'll be able to re-invent myself (how stupid can you be? can't you see they will all see you for what you really are?).
I can't keep crying. I'm too angry to cry. I'm too angry to do anything but scream. I can't accept the role I've been given in this world. So I destroy what I have, in hopes that I'll reach something greater.
I want to be thin
I want to be real
Appreciated, but not too much
Loved, but scorned
I need to feel powerful
Over myself, over the world
I need to feel
No obligations to succeed
I need to feel
No need to climb back up
To the world of the living.
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Can't believe I deserve anything
Don't want to need anything, but I want too much
Angry at myself for not getting what I want
Angry at my myself for getting some of those things that I want
Hating myself for not being thin enough
Hating myself for not being sick enough
Hating myself for not being truly disturbed
My emotions are leaving me. Can't feel anything but depression, boredom, passing anxiety.
I have to wonder
If it's my own humanity that I'm trying to kill.
I'll end up hating myself for that, too.
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I am satisfying Ana's voices, her wicked desires, my own need to destroy everything that is me. Ribs that stick out, bones that can be counted, inability to think, dizziness, new shades of darkness-- I am done fighting you all.
I can't
Fight something I can't see, something that I still believe
I have a deep need of
Something that I still need
To keep.
Can't even kill myself
I have to much hopes and desires to go ahead and do the deed
I just wish someone can pull me out and give me a reason to stick around
Because I can't see any. | | |
| It's been so long since I've been here. It feels like years. But I guess that's what it's like when you get so many experiences and feelings condensed into so little time.
I've been to residential treatment. I've stayed (well, my parents made me stay) for two long months... then I got out and tried to kill myself, so I spent the past 4 days at the psych ward.
And now I'm purging again. I can't stand it when I'm doing better, I can't stand it when I actually have something to lose. I can't stand the possibility of having something that I don't think I deserve to have. Health. Happiness. Feelings too unfamiliar to be embraced.
So I dive again. There are still small parts of me that regret this, but it's only because what I'm doing to my parents... no, not even that (you're too cold hearted to care about them). It's about their money. I can't stand it when they waste their money on yet another stint at a residential/inpatient facility, which isn't going to do me any good, because I won't let it.
I can't keep thinking about all this. I can't let myself drown in this.
So I don't the only things I know
To deal with these black waves
I cut and I starve this body and I binge and purge
And wait
For something to pull me out
Stupid expectations
For some guardian angel
Stupid expectations
Keeping me down.
I have to wonder if there's any other way to live.
They all say there is, but
I've never seen any proof of it.
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We're moving to Japan next month. They got us an apartment-- smaller than the house we live in now, but more comfortable (at least that's what it looks like in the pictures). I think I'll be happy to go to a place where I can move from one place to another, and people won't even know I'm there... mingle in the crowds, move with the lights, drown in the city.
Tokyo will be an interesting place to run to. And this is what I do, don't I? This is what I'm best at. Running away into my head, to NYC, to places where the native population consists mainly of rats and junkies. Places where no one will expect anything from me, where I finally won't have to prove anything to anyone.
Maybe that is why I drown.
Time and time again.
I could be the disappearing girl
Walking through mirrors and taking up space
No bigger than a dead butterfly.
I could be the disappearing girl
A performer working on her latest act
Ladies and gentlemen, just watch her go
I can be
I can paint these eyes, paint over reality
I can make them believe
They see what they want to see
And isn't reality, after all in the eyes of the beholder
Dying
Dead
Gone.
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Conclusion of the night: I thrive on fantasy. I can't let myself deal with the real world. And since the real world has so little magic in it, I have gotten used to creating my own magic. First there was the ballet, and those little stories I'd make up in my own head, so I wouldn't have to listen to their joke, their comments, their teasing. Then there was the trick of disappearing, the excitement of starvation, the euroption of energy. Then I found out about chemically-induced fantasies.
I'll never be able to deal with the real world. I am so afraid of falling into it, having it suck me dry. I am so afraid of becoming nothing-- having nothing in me, nothing in my world, than laundry-kids-TV-politics.
I'd rather kill myself than be like them.
And I do...
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I realized that I can't wait to get out of here. There are too many things that I hate about the US right now. There are too many things that I hate about myself right now. My need to destroy and dance in the flames. My need to write (but I can never find the words, and all my attempts seem feeble and silly). My need to wander the streets at night, singing loudly. My need to run away, time after time. My need to find people who can give me heroin and money and another wild ride through the dark side of the world.
I need too much. I am too much.
I'm sorry.
| | |
| I feel like I'm waking from a long, deep sleep. I spent the past two weeks at the psych ward (yes, I actually had to spend 20/4 at a hospital...). And when I got back home, my computer went kaput. And I'm going to residential treatment tomorrow, don't know for how long, which is going to keep me away from the xanga for a month or longer.
Hospitals are a form of death, or sleep—you are kept in a small universe which is far, far different than the world you left. Everything is white and empty, and you feel like you can melt into this emptiness, and just disappear. It is so tempting, to stay there forever—never talking to anyone, never writing, never leaving this comfortable, empty, world that makes only one demand of you: keep breathing.
I feel a bit disconnected, now that I'm slowly going back into the real world. I spent yesterday walking through this city, singing to myself, making up stories about the coming wars. This emptiness scares me. I'm always afraid that it would just stay, that I would drift further and further away from the world, that I will never be able to go back.
There are so many things that I can't put into words.
Feeling as if I'm looking for something, not sure what I'm looking for
Trying to find a way out,
Discovering again
There is no way out.
I went to visit my sister yesterday. Even though we're both stuck in the same shit, it feels like we're on different planets. I expected to feel more grounded when I visited her. I expected all the pain and hurt to be heavy enough to be able to lower me down to the ground, make me feel real again. But she is as far away from me as the "healthy" people are, now. She's convinced she's absolutely fine, that it's all some big conspiracy designed to make her fat. Right now she's eating so they'd let her out, and she could lose weight again. How did we all become so crazy in the first place? My mother, me, Sabine. My cousin Maria. My other relatives who are stuck in the shit.
What kind of spell is it that makes people believe
That slow death is survival, that physical thinness leads to emotional fullness
That death equals life.
I think I need something to make me feel alive again. Something that will stop me from going over the edge again, as I always do when it becomes too much to bear. I always turn against myself when things get too tough.
So I just decided I'm getting out of here. I'm going to hitchhike. I don't know if I'll actually reach my destination, and I still need to make it in time for my flight, but I'm going to do it.
Because I can't think of anything else to do.
Good news: I might actually have a school to go to next year. I'm supposed to call the principal there tomorrow, and if I'll manage to convince him that I'm not a danger to society, he'll let me enroll. I'm a good actress. I know how to find out what a person wants to hear.
I already picked out a pretty heavy course load, something which I will probably regret next year (English HL, Japanese HL, History HL, Biology SL, Math Methods SL, Economics HL, Art HL, Russian a.i. SL, TOK).
I don't really care what school I'll go to next year. As long as I'll be able to go. I never believed I'll miss school, but I do—I miss doing normal things that girls my age are supposed to be doing. I am so sick of staying on the other side of the river, looking at those people who have it all. For years, I tried to make myself stop thinking about them, to pretend they and their world do not exist.
It just hurts too much to think of all those things that I missed out on.
Disconnected thoughts. Running through imaginary jungles. Writing in my head the histories of other people,
Thing that I have no access to
Stories that would not want me as their own
anyway.
Lost.
I spent so much time waiting. I spent years hoping that things will change. But I am 16 years old. And I have to wonder what will happen when I'll be 20. the possibility is too frightening.
Fear again
Of food and realities that I can't quite grasp
I just wish I could dive into one of my books, my free witness protection programs
Leave this world behind
And disappear for good.
What's left for me to do but die off? This hope, some mindless hope, that things might change, as the ride turns against me.
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Lines of red, chemicals, another binge, another hour spent by the toilet. I hate myself because I can't change. I hate myself because almost every word that comes out of my mouth is a lie, and I can't stop it. I hate myself for being broken down.
Unable to contain, and the next moment
So empty.
There are things that I want and can't have. Can only be sure of this destruction, my hatred of everything and everyone
My loss, myself
Erased and forgotten
Exchanged for beads and a carnival mask. | | |
| It's been a crazy week. But it feels as if nothing happened.
I spent some time on the streets and in shelters again. I spent some time thinking and writing and reading. I spent a great deal of time trying to disconnect from my reality.
It doesn't feel crazy and chaotic anymore. I guess humans can get used to chaos, if they've been there long enough. In a place where the lines don't go straight and it's always twilight.
I am trying all I can to escape from this. I am tired. My own thoughts won't let me go. They are repetitive. More obsession. My thoughts scream at me to take action. They say, you are so fat, you have got to stop eating right now. They say, lose weight or die. They scream with passion, cries heavy with obsession and anxiety.
But I'm used to that already. And I'm used to being afraid all the time. And I'm used to waking up in the morning and having my thoughts punch me in the stomach.
This intense fear-- I think I'm finally getting used to drowning in it.
This week:
Drowning myself in a sea of chemicals, staying up all night to write long essays about the possibility of war with Iran and the Minutemen Project.
Finding my ballet equipment and crying for an entire day, until I make myself sit on the floor and stare at all this for 10 minutes without moving.
Walking through the streets at night, singing to myself.
Sitting in the subway stop with my guitar, singing about bats and witches and drug addicts and North Korean concentration camps.
Sitting in rooms that are about to crumble down and fall on me. Talking to people I don't even want to see. Hiding inside a chemical haze. Losing myself.
Fear. Fear and tears and physical pain, like fire. Blood on my arm, blood on my jeans. Boys that say that everything will work out eventually. Girls that look and stay away. People saying I'm weird, people saying I'm too thin, people saying I am gone.
Waking up at night after a strange nightmare/dream/hallucination, finding a song to match my desperation, deciding that marijuana is the cure to this mess.
Walking through the rain. Letting it cover me. Letting myself absorb it.
Looking at walls that change colors, at the numbers on the scale, binging and purging and losing myself.
This is getting weirder and weirder. Out of my control, definitely.
But it's better to be lost in my own weirdness and my own chaos than in the obsession and fear of anorexia.
It's always better to escape.
But I have nowhere to escape to.
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Killing myself is not going to help. Trying to kill myself is not going to make things better. People don't understand it when I hurt myself out of frustration. People don't understand it when I cut instead of crying, instead of screaming.
People don't understand that I must keep this under control, keep myself under control-- thin, scarred, and on dope-- or this little rag doll will explode, and I will finally lose my mind for good.
-----------------------------------
There is more that I want to write, but I can't find the words. After such a long time of diving head first into the chaos, into the eye of the storm, I find myself getting bored with it. I need a break. I need something to hold on to. I need some way to keep myself in balance. I am losing everything. I need a way out.
I am gone. Reading back through the beginning on this xanga, I see her there. Now she's gone. I am gone. All that's left is a shadow, a storm.
How do I bring her back? How do I feel like myself again? | | |
| It's been a week. Maybe more.
She hasn't said a single word, and
She can't remember the last time she spoke
Laying in her bed all day, crying silently when tears are needed
And they all try to talk to her, and they all do what they can
But she doesn't say a word.
Just sometimes, when she's alone
She reads some
About wars fought by other people.
The body is wasted
The body is falling to pieces
The body is mute and battered
And she doesn't say a thing.
People come in to talk to her, but she never answers
Just sometimes sheds a tear
All day long, all day long
They come in to hug her and tell her it'll be alright
Trying everything to make her feel
That there is a world to come back to
But she never speaks.
Bones protruding, feet stepping on the edge of Elsewhere
But she doesn't say a word
Maybe she doesn't hear them speak
Their prayers and stories and words
All day long, trying what they can
But she doesn't say a word.
Dead and mute
She is silent.
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I just finished commenting on some xangas. Now it's time to dive back again... disappear into my blanket again, disappear into bony nothingness and hear them speak and try to pull me out of it.
Can't speak. Can't do anything but cry.
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